Born in Death (In Death 23)

“God knows how. I’m going to make coffee. All around?”

“If I had some cake to go with it. I got shafted on that end of the deal.”

“Cake?” Her mind circled around. “Oh, right. Mavis. I think there was some left. Those women were like vultures when something had icing on it. Maybe the Dark Shadow stocked some of the leftovers in the AutoChef. I could probably choke down a piece myself.”

And thinking that sugar and caffeine kept the blood moving, she made it a large piece along with strong, black coffee. He’d be all right, she told herself, because he wouldn’t let himself be otherwise. But she’d keep a finger on the pulse, and if she didn’t like the beat, she’d move the Tandy investigation out of the house.

For convenience, she set Tandy’s board next to the one she’d already started on her other case. And on the side with a slick white surface began to handwrite a time line.

She made lists of names. People she’d already spoken with on one side, those she would contact in the morning on the other. She tacked up Tandy’s ID photo.

Her first step was to call the contact number of the parking lot. As she expected, she was transferred to an endless menu of choices, and quickly selected operator before the droning litany could bore her into a coma.

“Courtesy Messaging Service.” The voice was nasal as a trombone and dense with Queens.

“This is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD,” Eve began and gave her badge number. “I need information on the Park and Go, Fifty-eighth Street.”

“For information, please call Customer Service between the hours of eight A.M. and—”

“I need information now, and I don’t want to talk to some hand-patter at Customer Service.”

“Well, jeez. This is a messaging service, you know, for, like, twenty businesses in Manhattan alone. I don’t have information about a parking lot.”

“Put me through to the owner.”

“I’m not supposed to bother the client with—”

“Maybe you should give me your name and location. I’ll send a couple of uniforms to pick you up, and you can tell me how you’re not supposed to bother the client when you get down to Cop Central.”

“Well, jeez. You gotta wait a minute.”

Eve was put on wait mode while music sweeter than the icing on her cake tinkled in her ear.

During the ten minutes it played—with periodic computer-generated bulletins assuring her that her call was important—she began a series of probability runs.

By the time an actual human came back on, she was drinking her second cup of coffee and studying the results.

“Lieutenant, is it?” The man looked slick and sounded same.

“That’s right. And you are?”

“Matt Goodwin. You’re inquiring about the Park and Go on Fifty-eighth?”

“That’s right. Do you own it?”

“I represent the corporation that does. What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m investigating a possible crime in which this lot may be involved. I need the security discs as well as the logs for Thursday last, between eighteen and nineteen hundred hours.”

“What possible crime?”

“It’s a Missing Persons matter. I need the discs and the logs as soon as possible.”

“I believe those discs are dumped every twenty-four, Lieutenant. As for the logs, I assume you have a warrant?”

“I can get one.”

“Well, when you do—”